


a knight of clovers for a king of spades

by evanlinge



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Cannonical Character Death, Episode Tag, Gen, s04e09
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-28
Updated: 2013-08-28
Packaged: 2017-12-24 22:38:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/945480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evanlinge/pseuds/evanlinge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“This is the price of a soul,” The old crone had laughed, and the coin's metal had burned in Morgana's hands. This is the price of Lancelot's soul.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a knight of clovers for a king of spades

 

_**Lancelot** _

 

*****

 

_“Lancelot was the noblest and bravest of all Camelot's knights,” It was said. This is not that Lancelot. This dark shade is not the fierce, beautiful Lancelot, who walked, unafraid into the Veil's waiting embrace. This is not Merlin's Lancelot._

 

*****

 

The Pool of Nemhain's dark waters are still and cold when Morgana casts the coin into the pool.

 

“This is the price of a soul,” The old crone had laughed, and the uneven metal had burned in Morgana's hands. This is the price of _Lancelot's_ soul.

 

The waters begin to churn and bubble, writhing as if something is _alive_ in their depths. The ripples lash out like creeping tendrils of power and Morgana shivers in the water. The soul, the knight, rises like some handsome god out of legend, lean and strong as he moves towards her.

 

“My name is Lancelot, my lady,” He says, “I am yours to command.” She smiles, and he is cold.

 

*****

 

Beyond the Veil, there are countless souls, twisting and rising as more join them. It is chaos, and yet at the same time it is still and inhuman, as if they have been stripped to the bare essence of themselves.

Lancelot, if that is truly his name, feels something on the edge of his awareness. Something bright and real that summons him. He reaches out to grasp it, traces the spiral pattern and does not care that it is too hot against his form. It drags him, beckons him through the Veil, and he ignores the other spirits that tear and screech at him.

 

There is a woman dressed in black, near the bank of the river, and he senses the pull of the coin toward her. Her green eyes are wide with satisfaction, and what he thinks must be madness. She is familiar. Lancelot knows her name: _Morgana_ , and something itches at the back of his slowly returning consciousness. He ignores it. He is here to serve.

 

He presents himself, bowing low as she smiles smooth and hard, but he is still empty.

 

*****

 

“We have work to do,” Morgana tells him, and Lancelot instinctively reaches for his sword. Instinct, he wonders on that, because he has no instinct. She requires his heart, and he wonders on that too, because he has no heart.

 

“I thought it would please me,” Says Morgana. “Molding his mind. Instead I feel curiously sad. He was once so mighty, and now he's nothing but a shade. I shall be sorry to see him go.”

 

“Lancelot, the bravest and most noble of all of Camelot's knights.” Lancelot remembers, but does not know where from. He knows that he was once a fierce warrior, a brother in arms, a lover, and a friend. He knows that he was once a knight: Arthur's knight, and he knows-

 

 

* * *

 

 

Lancelot sees Guinevere, kind and beautiful, and feels something-,

-something he cannot, or perhaps will not, put name to.

 

*****

 

“If there was anything I could have done,” Merlin says, looking anguished. “If I could have used magic,-”

Something, soft and warm, like a dear secret, pulls behind Lancelot's breastbone but he pushes it aside. “If any of us had magic, Merlin,” He says, “life would be a lot easier.”

 

*****

 

Lancelot charges against Arthur, the young king is handsome and courageous, even wounded, and-,

 

-Lancelot lowers his raised lance. _Loyalty_ , he thinks, and is overcome with a sense of bitter-sweet melancholy.

 

*****

 

“I want to believe that everything is fine,” Merlin says, soft and raw, like the words have been torn from his throat. “That we really have Lancelot back, but-”

 

Merlin knows better. He remembers the way that Lancelot had accepted his magic and duty to Arthur. The way that he had followed him to the Isle of the Blessed, quiet and thoughtful like he was weighing his life. And finally, Merlin recalls the prophecy.

 

“Lancelot was the noblest and bravest of all Camelot's knights,” It was said.

This is not that Lancelot. This dark shade is not the fierce, beautiful, noble, Lancelot, who walked, unafraid into the Veil's waiting embrace. This is not Merlin's Lancelot.

 

*****

 

The early morning sun transforms Lancelot's handsome features into a mask of horror, glittering like fire and something dark from beyond the Veil. It sends a chill through Merlin, but mostly, he feels a sense of profound loss. As if something exquisite and well-loved had been stolen from him.

“I didn't want it to be true.”

 

* * *

 

The clash of swords rings out through the throne room, Arthur's wrath palpable. Lancelot is blank; his sword swings true but there is no passion in his fight. He does not fight like a man fighting for his love. He fights like it is merely an exercise that he must complete.

 

Merlin's eyes gleam gold and Lancelot waits for Arthur's strike, expression turning grim when Gwen stops the enraged king.

 

*****

 

Morgana's message is delivered, and Lancelot must do as his lady commands. He must, but if he had to put name to what he feels when he swallows the concealed poison, he might have called it relief.

 

*****

 

“In all ways but one,” Arthur says, “Lancelot was a man of honour.”

 

 _In all ways_ , Merlin thinks.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Lancelot wakes to the touch on his brow, brown eyes meeting Merlin's watery gaze. He can no longer feel the burn of the coin, nor the taste of Morgana's poison. He is whole, and at peace.

 

“Merlin,” He says, warm and familiar, “thank you.”

 

The life leaves him as quickly as it had returned, and Merlin wants to scream. Rage at the Veil for taking him, and Morgana for raising him, a shade of his former self; but Lancelot looks calm among lilies, the sun painting his pale skin a warm gold.

 

The boat drifts into the lake as the fire rages high and bright.

 

 _Lancelot is at peace,_ Merlin thinks. _Whatever the circumstances, he is at peace._

 

 

 


End file.
